


Burnt Afternoon

by BlueSimba



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: F/M, Fluff, GN Reader, M/M, chrollo can wear anything and make it look good, not answering questions with questions for once? amazing, sweet moments with chrollo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 20:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12441414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimba/pseuds/BlueSimba
Summary: Morning glows are inviting, sure, but there's something about being here, with him, in this burnt afternoon.





	Burnt Afternoon

The sheets that dip into the grooves of his body aren’t silk, but the way they slip and slink over him makes them look like the softest sheets on this side of the world. Passing over him, your eyes move to the window, where warm, almost burnt sunlight pries its way through the blinds. It should be just like it is in the movies—wake up next to him, he’ll crack open his eyes, you’ll both talk for a few minutes and sink into each other’s comforting presence, you’ll get up with some excuse (maybe it’s the morning breath, maybe your stomach throwing a temper tantrum), and he’ll keep you here, hand softly on your body or fluttering kisses on your neck.

That’s the ideal, that’s what comes with a morning hazy glow.

But this isn’t an inviting morning, and this isn’t your relationship with him. At least, not a relationship like in the movies (are those even real?), because you both don’t function like that. Couldn’t function like that. Your bodies don’t fit together like long-lost puzzle pieces. Your eyes can lock across the room, but the fire, the spark—that isn’t how it is. Mostly. Kind of. Not exactly. 

In the back of your head, a headache pulsates, crying, screaming for attention, to be fed by a _“Not again”_ or maybe an _“Already, huh?”_ and the knots in yours shoulders and neck dig, dig, dig themselves deeper until they’re buried in the cores of your muscles. Feels like it’s permanent, like you can almost never get rid of them, never ward them off. Except with him. 

Stretching, there’s a soft shift next to you, a pressure that feels closer than it was mere seconds ago.

He says your name perfectly. His lips curl around the letters and make them into something magical, something he’s been the only one to do as if it’s a secret, lost art and he’s mastered it. He unearths something in you when he does it, and by the way you react—how your eyes immediately glide over to him, the way you come to life when you make eye contact—he knows it. You don’t mind, because the way he has your heart belting out anthems for him, beating for him, feels too good to stop. Feels too spellbinding to be real. Sometimes you wonder if it is. 

“Yeah?” A quiet response; when the only other sounds are the rustling sheets and you both breathing, though, it’s not hard to miss. 

There’s a quiet air floating between you two, quietly serenading, acting as the worn bridge for your hearts (the kind that misses a couple of planks, yet still gets the job done). By the way you both look at each other (how his eyes have the answers to your questions, how your eyes bring his to life with an enchanting spell), you both decide words can wait. They can always wait when you’re this close, so, so, close to a morning glow instead of burnt light from a nameless afternoon. 

Your fingers trail up his outstretched arm. Cold, his skin doesn’t ward you off, doesn’t make you shy away. He lets your fingers trail over him. The look he’s got on his face, like he’s listening to a nostalgic lullaby and the bags under his eyes don’t drag his face down, squeezes your heart with a gentle reminder. 

You don’t need to be like the movies to have this. He doesn’t have to be the perfect complement to set your name on fire when he says it. You both move at your own paces—not miles per minutes for someone else’s pleasure. Not like the movies. 

And, as the afternoon fingers bend through the blinds, as you lie here with the knots in your neck and shoulders disappearing, with a man who can’t be fully understood, fully captured in a movie’s length, you decide this is better. 

The burnt, nameless afternoon is where you stay.


End file.
